


x's mark the days.

by boldly (techburst)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Internalizing, basically dean on the daily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 11:23:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6421975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/techburst/pseuds/boldly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>that pass him by in a blur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	x's mark the days.

His alarm goes off every morning at five, but he's always awake before it has a chance to make itself heard. 

At least he's come far enough to drag himself out of bed and get ready for the sorry excuse for an attempt at domesticity that pays pretty well but always expects him to put in a hundred and ten percent. It should be enough that he doesn't go directly for the bottle of Jack on top of the refrigerator anymore. 

Now he waits until he comes home in the afternoons. 

But he wakes up, and he stares at the ceiling, wondering when he's going to look over at the other side of the bed and see Sam sleeping next to him instead of Lisa. Because he's convinced, he's _convinced_ that this is some fucked up dream or a trickster's joke, and that if he waits long enough he'll snap out of it and his brother will be right there. Like nothing ever happened. Like the earth didn't open up and swallow him whole and leave behind a broken man that can barely stand to look at himself in the mirror most days. 

Six months, and he's still waiting. 

One hundred and eighty days - and however many minutes and hours, he hasn't gotten _that_ obsessive about it - of startling himself awake before the sun shows its face, drenched in a cold sweat because he dreamed about the pain of Lucifer using Sam's fists to break him him _again_ .. 

One hundred and eighty mornings begun by keeping his eyes closed and wishing, _wishing_ that he'll _really_ wake up and Sam will be next to him and they can get up for coffee and start on the lead for their next hunt. Because his brother will have already circled newspaper articles and obituaries because he has nothing better to do with his free time. 

One hundred and eighty mornings, and all he sees is the fall of Lisa's dark hair on the pillow next to him. 

On the one hundred and eighty-first, it finally starts sinking in. 

He wakes with the stale taste of a bad dream on the back of his tongue, but he swallows around it with a grimace and drags himself into the shower. Stands beneath the spray until he risks being late for work. When he slips out the door with the lunch Lisa packed for him the night before, he doesn't breathe any easier - but it's not as hard to fake it. 

Then again, he's always been a pro at faking it. He won't deny it. Actually, he's pretty damn proud of it. He's managed to keep a lot of shit from his brother that way. 

And old habits die hard, he guesses. Go figure, right?

The daily grind keeps him busy enough. He works himself until he's too tired to think of anything but falling into bed no matter how filthy he is. (Because, again, old habits die hard and Sam had never minded. Much.) 

He goes to birthday parties and helps Ben with his homework. When he _can_ , that is. Math is fucking confusing. But he acts the part, plays the role he's been cast into, and if anyone had ever thought to ask him about it? 

He'll say it's the best performance of his life. 

On the three hundred and twenty-ninth day, he's finally convinced himself that he can do this. That he can wake up in the morning and have coffee with his new family and read the damn newspaper while Ben rambles excitedly about his upcoming baseball game. Apparently, the team's pretty decent. 

Dean tries to remember if they really are, and can't. 

On the three hundred and forty-sixth day, he finally thinks he might be breathing a little easier. 

And now it isn't all about faking it. When Lisa crawls into bed next to him every night and curls herself around him, he pulls her closer. When she smiles at him, he smiles back, and it doesn't feel so damn strained. 

He thinks he can finally wake up every morning without thinking _please let this be the day it stops. Please let Sammy be there this time._

When Sam shows up, fresh out of hell like it's no damn big deal at all, everything Dean has built over the past three hundred and sixty-one days comes crashing down around his ears like it's made of paper and scotch tape and he doesn't give a damn. Who the hell has he been trying to fool?

Sam's eyes are greener than he remembers, and he almost wants to hate himself for forgetting something so damn insignificant - 

Except that it's anything but.


End file.
